These past few days haven't been easy. I swear things are getting worse. I keep trying to tell myself that it's not that bad. That it's all in my head. That my concerns are just paranoia. But at what point do things cross the line from paranoia to reasonable? At what point do the voices become a real concern and not something I should just be shrugging off? My medication is supposed to help with the psychosis. But to what degree? I spoke to my doctor. I told him that I don't feel like the medication is helping. I still hear the voices. Still hear them talking in the other room. I can't tell what they're saying. I can never hear them clearly enough. It is just loud enough to hear that a conversation is happening. But not enough to actually make out the words. I can tell that it is two men. Every time I try to go into the next room to hear them, the conversation has moved. Suddenly, it comes from the next room over or the room I just came from. Always muffled. Always just far enough away where their words are a jumbled, incohesive, mumble.

At least, that's the men. There are also the children. I hear them clear as day. As if they are right next to me, calling out to me. "Mom?" They say. Or different variations of that. "Mommy?" They will call me. Or "Momma?" Always seeking my attention. Just for me to turn to the voice and no one is there. Or I will hear the baby crying from her bassinet down the hallway. However, she is fast asleep in my arms. I hear the crying so vividly, that I'll get up to go check the other room, just for the crying to go silent. Sometimes, it even tricks me into thinking my baby is in the other room. There are, of course, the times when I will hear her cry from her bed. Only to go check on her to see that she is, in fact, deeply asleep in her dreams.

As for the children that call out to me, their talking is usually shorter. More to the point. I heard my son of seven call out to me and ask from the other side of my door, "Mommy? Where are you?" I had been in my bathroom at the time. I thought he must be looking for me to ask for breakfast. I hurried to go to him. Only to open my door to see he wasn't actually there. He was still in his bedroom, sleeping. My psychiatrist, Dr. Wager, calls it a form of postpartum psychosis. I only had my baby five months ago. These kinds of things can happen, he says. After all, I had a similar experience with my second child. After my first daughter was born, I heard the same voices.

Then there are the visual hallucinations. It is hard to put it into words that will make sense. It all sounds so crazy. But faces change. Faces warp. Faces seem to smear. Sometimes it is painstakingly obvious. Their face has been swapped altogether with a new face. Other times, the change is more subtle. Maybe their nose is slightly altered. Maybe their mouth has a different curve. Maybe their eyes have changed hues ever so slightly. Maybe there is a mole or marking that wasn't there before. You'd miss it if you didn't know where to look. I picked up my infant daughter to inspect her face. It had changed. Something was different. I wasn't entirely sure what, but I could just see that she wasn't... her.

I presented her to my husband. I asked him, "Do you notice anything about our daughter?"

He looked confused. "No." He answered plainly, "What?"

"You don't see anything different about her face?" I tried to help him out. Giving him the idea of where to look.

"What's different?" He still didn't see it.

"Her face has changed." I finally told him. "Look at her. She looks different."

He looked more worried than confused now. He looked her over again, more closely. Then he gently took her from my arms, "She looks normal, Kim." He was looking harder at me than he had her. "I don't know what you're talking about."

That was when I decided not to discuss it with my husband anymore. I couldn't stand the way he looked at me. Like he was scared. Either for me or of me, I couldn't tell. I did, however, continue to ask him about the voices. I couldn't help that. I would hear him call out to me. Or I would hear him talking in the other room. I would come to ask him what he had said, only for him to ask me, "Have you taken your medication today?"

Needless to say, I didn't find much support at home. My psychiatrist recommended therapy as well as the medications he prescribed. A couple of antidepressants with an antipsychotic thrown in. My therapist made a note to ask me in each session, "What are the voices saying to you now?" I felt a bit patronized with this. I knew she was only doing her job and trying to make sure I wasn't being told to harm myself or anyone else. But, it still felt so belittling. As if I constantly needed to be monitored. A sort of "She's crazy, it's only a matter of time before she snaps."

That wasn't the only reason they handled me with such care. It was also the paranoia of other things. People stalking me. People that did, in fact, exist. I wasn't making them up. People following me. I wasn't stupid. I wasn't blind. I knew people were tailing me. I could see them with my own eyes. Following me in the car. Taking all the same turns I took. Stopping near me or behind me. Always just far enough that I couldn't see into their vehicles. Sure, there were different vehicles from time to time, but that is exactly what a stalker would do. Using a different vehicle to appear less suspicious.

"Why would someone follow you?" My therapist would ask me.

I told her the obvious answer, "To harm me or my family." That was clear.

"Why would anyone want to hurt you or your family?" She tried to challenge the idea.

"Why does anyone hurt anyone?" I found my answer to sound a little vague. But people do all kinds of crazy things. There never has to be a reason. The reason could be something so little to the point of nonexistence. This was a crazy world we lived in. This all went hand-in-hand with my constant fear that I was going to die. I could feel my end coming. Someone was going to kill me. I didn't know who. I didn't know why. I didn't know where. All I knew was that it was going to happen. So, it made obvious sense that someone was following me for that reason. I was being watched. I was being tracked.

Every time my phone rang and I didn't recognize the number, I felt a sharp twist of fear and dread in my gut. They were calling to torment me. Calling just to strike fear into my heart. And they knew what they were doing, too. Making sure to call from a new number each time. I could block them all I wanted. They had endless numbers to use. They wanted to make sure that I never had a moment of peace. To keep me on my toes and living in a paranoid cycle of always looking over my shoulder. They got a kick out of it. They wanted me to live like this. But for how long? When would that thrill wear off to the point they had to finally strike? Would they go after my family, too, or only me? I would look to my three children and feel such terror for their safety. Who was to say they wouldn't be hurt first just so I suffer even more in my empathy? People are sick these days.

It made me want to disappear. To run away. They shouldn't go after my family if I wasn't there to draw them in. They wanted me to suffer. Wanted this to consume me. I wouldn't give them the satisfaction. I could take all the fun out of it instead. I could end it myself. They would love to be the one to end me. I could take all of that away from them. There were countless ways that I could do it. I could ruin all their plans. That was a very satisfying thought to me. Not only could I take control and ruin everything for them, but I could make it all end. No longer having to live like this. Looking over my shoulder all the time. Scared of every car, notification on my phone, and every time the doorbell rang. God, the fear that filled me with. Anytime someone came to the door, my heart pounded in my chest. What could they possibly want? Just waiting for me to open the door enough for them to kick it open and stab me to death? Not a chance. I never opened the door. I ignored everyone who ever came by. They wouldn't get me that way. They would have to get me one day when I was out. I could only hope my children weren't with me that day.

"How is the therapy helping?" Dr. Wager asked me over our video call. I hated talking to him. I knew he just thought I was crazy. I always wanted him to simply refill my medications and let me get back to my day. But, no. These monthly check-ups were needed if I wanted my prescription.

"I guess it's okay." I shrugged. "I mean, I am sticking with it. Anything is worth a shot."

"Yes." He agreed. "It's entirely possible that your psychosis is a symptom of your unresolved trauma. Medications can only help so much when there is a deeper issue to resolve." He had already told me this before. But he was careful to repeat himself with me often. My memory hadn't been the same since the electroconvulsive therapy. That would be the method of using an electric shock applied to the brain in order to induce seizures while the patient was put under anesthesia. That had been suggested by my last round of psychiatrists two years ago after the birth of my first daughter. It was supposed to help with my severe depression. All it ended up doing was frying my brain. Now, it was as though my brain was Swiss cheese. Holes eaten all through my memory with the new addition of trouble forming new memories. I had so many post-it notes all over and notes taken in my phone to help me remember things. I had five or six journals I was continuously writing in. There was no telling how much information I had lost. It also made me wonder if maybe I had forgotten something important regarding this fear of mine.

To anyone else, my fears seem irrational. But to me, it all made perfect sense. Even if I had a hard time explaining my fears. Even to me, at times, they sounded a little unfounded. But what if I had seen or heard something? What if the voices said something that I could make out? What if the face changed into that of a demon? What if my stalker slipped up and I caught them? What if all of those things happened and I simply didn't remember it? What if the memory was erased, but the raw fear remained? It would leave me shaken with this seemingly unwarranted fear that I wouldn't be able to explain to anyone, even myself. Of course, it would make me sound crazy. But I knew that I wasn't crazy. I trusted my gut feeling. I knew something was off. I knew my end was inevitable. A gruesome one at that. I don't know why this person (or group of people) hated me so much. But I could feel it. They would thrive and relish in my pain.

My psychiatrist continued, "Are you continuing to take your medications daily?"

That seemed like a dumb question, but I knew it was his job, "Yes. I am. I only miss it if I run out and need a refill."

"Do you notice any difference when you don't take them?" I could see he was typing while talking to me. Updating my chart or just chatting in emails. Who knows.

"Not really." I told him honestly. "But I was wondering about something. Last time I went through this process, I was juggled around on so many different medications. I'd rather avoid that this time if we can. I'd like to try to stick with one and up the dosage until we reach the max to fully test out the medication I am already on before switching to another."

"I understand that." he said, "Right now, you are the highest we can go with the antidepressants. But I can increase your antipsychotic from 2ML to 5ML. You should hopefully see an improvement with that. I'll send that over to the pharmacy now."

"Thank you." I felt dull and dead. On repeat. I just wanted to be better. I didn't like feeling this way or needing medications in order to get by. All I knew was without the medications, I could potentially be worse off. I was trying to trust these doctors to help me. I felt like if I didn't get help, I would be dead. Right now, it was pretty much a race between my stalkers and my depression on which would kill me first.

We ended the call and I let out a long sigh. Relieved to be done with it, but also feeling tired. Physically tired, yes. But I was tired in my soul. It was exhausting to feel this way. I had actually run out of my medications a couple days ago. I was sure it wouldn't be a big deal if I waited a little while to go pick up my newest dosage. It was annoying to have to rely on pills to feel normal. Better yet, it was annoying to have to rely on pills and still not even get to feel normal. It was more of a "take this in order not to feel too weird." While still feeling a bit weird. I would never be at 100 percent normal. But at least I wasn't too far gone. Lost in my crazy. My therapist didn't like it when I used that word. She was always reassuring me that I wasn't crazy. While my fears were a bit unfounded, they were still rational to a degree. Apparently, it is normal to feel paranoid. It is normal to feel fear of others. The bad part is how excessive mine is. While I didn't feel normal, I was relieved to hear her say it nonetheless. However, those thoughts all scattered away quickly when I heard the voices again.

Again, it sounded like two men having a casual conversation just beyond the wall to my left. It was clear enough that I could hear two distinct and different voices. The conversation flowed with a friendly cadence. It almost drove me crazy that I couldn't ever make out what they said. Why was it always muffled? I decided to try something I hadn't before. I walked to the wall and pressed my ear against it. It didn't improve anything like I was hoping it would. That was when my husband came into the room.

"What are you doing?" He asked.

Why not be honest. He already knew what I was doing, I am sure. "I was trying to make out what they were saying." I came away from the wall now to stand next to him. Even away from the wall, their volume hadn't changed. I heard one of the men laugh. It was a jolly laugh, like his friend told him a joke.

I knew exactly what he was going to say before he said it. I mouthed the words along with him, "Did you take your medication today?"

Of course I hadn't. I was out. But he would only mock me and discredit me if I told him that. I opted to play along, "Very funny." I rolled my eyes. "But seriously. I can never hear their actual words. Don't you think that's weird?"

He stared at me blankly, "Because not being able to hear the imaginary men clearly enough is the weird part?"

"That is weird, though, isn't it?" I ignored his remark.

"The whole thing is weird." He assured me without hesitation. "You've been open with your doctor about all this? Your therapist?"

"Yes, Frank." I felt a small amount of annoyance creep into my words.

"Just making sure." He held up his hands in his defense. "This isn't really my department of expertise."

"I'm not insane." I narrowed my eyes at him. This was why it was so frustrating to talk to him about these things. He always acted like I was some kind of alien or something. There was never any understanding. For once, it would have been nice to have him believe me. Or at the very least, pretend he believed me. Something to make me feel a little less alone in this crazy world.

"Never said you were." He shook his head, "Just because the whole thing is crazy, doesn't mean that you are crazy."

"Thanks." I said sarcastically. I walked away from him before he could follow up with anything else. As I went towards the living room, I could hear the voices shift and ease down the hallway with me. The conversation was fading out from what I could gather. By the time I made it to the couch, it was finally over. Whatever they had been discussing was done for. I rested my head back on the couch and stared at the ceiling feeling a little hopeless. I watched the sunlight dance across the popcorn texture through our back door. I wished I could sleep. Forever. I didn't want to have to wake up to more of this. But I knew another day would come. Another day with more dread and fear. Another day of paranoia and hallucinations. When would it stop? What would make it stop? My mind went into a dark place again. I could make it stop by myself. I could end it. Darkness. Black. Nothingness. I didn't have to wake up to this anymore.

I heard my baby cry from her bassinet down the hall. I felt a mix of dread and purpose. Dread to have to get up after I had only just sat down. But purpose because my children kept me grounded. They were the reason I woke up every morning. They were pretty much the only reason I was still here. I had to be here every day in order to be here for them. I groaned and pulled myself up. I went right back down the hall to my room again just to find out that my baby was still sleeping. The crying had stopped. My husband looked up at me when I returned. He looked at our infant daughter, then back to me. He already knew why I had come. "She's fine." He told me what I already gathered.

"Yeah." I muttered and walked away back to my spot on the couch. "But I'm not."